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Thirty-Six

North London, Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Freddie’s flat lay quiet. Then Bruno Mars began a muffled warble.

Startled from a deep snooze, Mark fumbled under the blanket for his phone. Bruno kept singing. Shut up, Bruno! Shut up! Ah…found it.

His hand and the phone surfaced. Mark’s puffy eyes squinted at the bright screen, his finger jabbing the red disconnect dot. His phone had been busy: missed calls from Fallon, Wink, and Freddie, plus a text from him all in caps: GET UP, KEEGS! I‘LL CALL EVERY 30 MIN. UNTIL YOU‘RE UP. STOP MAKING THIS A HABIT. LATERS.

The time came into focus—half twelve—and the date…June 5. Mark’s mind wandered to a sunny London day, riding his Vespa with the wind in his hair and the girl of his dreams hanging on tight…three years ago, today…

Mark dropped the phone on his tanned chest and stared at the crack in the ceiling, its focus blurring. His stomach throbbed as past mistakes haunted his mind. Sweeping hair from his eyes, he winced as he rose up on an elbow. The springs of Freddie’s lumpy sofa bed whined in solidarity.

Back arched, tail waving back and forth, Moriarty hissed from his lofty perch atop the breakfast bar crowded with dirty dishes.

“Yeah, judge all you want, mate.” A frustrating itch tickled Mark’s nose. “Ah-choo, ah-chooo!”

His gaze fell to his backpack and suitcase, still sporting airline baggage tags. He had been back in London a week and still hadn’t unpacked.

“Fuck it.” He sniffed, clutching his stomach. “I can’t…not today.” He returned to his phone, typing a quick text to Wink: Got laryngitis. Please tell the studio I’ll be in for ADR tomorrow.

He hit send and pulled the blanket over his head, retreating from the day.

• • •

South London

Done!The act in Upton Park that Alex had been revisiting for months was finally finished. She sat back in her chair and let out a satisfied sigh, absorbing the breathtaking view beyond her laptop: the Tower of London, the Thames, Tower Bridge. She never tired of it, and thanks to Tarquin’s rooftop terrace, it was hers for the summer.

Last week, he had given Alex keys to his riverfront penthouse in Anchor Brewhouse, a historic converted warehouse, so she could write away the summer overlooking her favourite bridge. Tarquin’s place was quiet, free of Tom practicing his audition pieces, and close to the theatres she was pitching.

Tarquin’s generosity may have removed her from London Fields during the day, but it didn’t remove London Fields—or Mark—from her thoughts, especially today. She had pushed through their shared memories, the unanswered questions, the lingering hurt…determined to finish the latest draft of Upton Park. She was determined not to allow June 5 to derail her progress, and neither would the presence of Fallon at the Royal Court’s fundraising gala in nine days’ time. Alex would show them. She would show everyone.